You Will Have a Perfect Christmas (In and Out of Bed)
by foojules
Summary: Sybil, Tom, and their two daughters travel to Downton Abbey for Christmas 1925. Domestic bliss! Humor! Bromance! One-shot for the holiday fic exchange; takes place in the universe of You Will Find Perfect Happiness (In Bed).


_AN: Happiest of holidays to all of my readers… but especially to wslowry, my fic exchange Secret Santa recipient! I'm sure you've all read her fic _Home—_and if you haven't, you should head over and give yourself a very nice Christmas present._

_The prompt was for a Christmas that Tom and Sybil spend with their children and specific requests included domestic bliss, romance (and bromance), and humor. As was also requested, there's nothing too angsty, though things do occasionally veer into ~serious~ territory. Hope there's enough fluff to balance it out! _

_I'm deviating a teensy bit from the "rules" of the exchange, as this isn't strictly a self-contained story, but rather a glimpse into the future in the universe of my fic _You Will Find Perfect Happiness (in Bed)_. The Bransons are still living in Liverpool (which will be explained in future chapters of that fic) though they've upgraded to a bigger place._

_A note on Edith's storyline: in this AU Michael Gregson never went to Germany, and she eventually moved into his London flat. He is still married, as Britain did not allow divorce on the grounds of insanity until 1937. He and Edith have no children._

* * *

20 December 1925

"_Mummaaaaa!_"

Brick and wood and plaster did little to muffle the excitement in five-year-old Emma Branson's voice, which could be clearly heard all the way from the front walk to the bedroom upstairs. Tying the sash on her dressing gown, Sybil smiled.

Downstairs, the front door banged open. "_Mummaaaa!_ Come and see the _treeee!_"

"Just a minute, poppet!" Sybil had seated herself at the dressing table to make a rushed attempt at untangling the sodden mat of curls left over from her bath. She'd never been tempted to grow her hair long again, despite Tom's occasional, nostalgic references to it; a bob was so much easier to manage, especially with hair like hers. But _easier _did not mean _easy_. "A few minutes!"

A telltale whimper from the next room signaled the premature end of Roisin's nap. Their second daughter's sleep had always been tenuous, fitful, liable to snap at the slightest disturbance. When she was an infant they had waited in vain for the ten-hour nights that Emma had naturally slipped into at six or seven months, but the reprieve never came. _Our little sentry,_ Tom called her. As she grew her bedtime shifted later and later until now, at two and a half, she was going to sleep at the same time as her elder sister. Waking up earlier, too: nine times out of ten when Sybil went into the girls' room to rouse them, She'd find Roisin playing quietly on the floor in the thin glow of the night-light while Emma remained dead to the world.

Soon Roisin would be finished with naps altogether. Sybil had only put her down today because Tom had gone out to get the tree and Sybil was dying for a bath after a particularly arduous morning shift. She walked into the dim room to find Roisin sitting up in bed deciding whether to cry in earnest, her lower lip protruding ominously and the little chest already hitching. Hoping to head her off, Sybil went on a brisk charm offensive. "Hullo, sweetheart!" She snapped the curtains open to let the white light fall in. "Do you know where Da and Emma have been?" Roisin shook her head slowly, blinking solemnly against the sudden brightness. "They went to get a Christmas tree for us! Shall we go down and see it?" A nod, slightly hesitant, and Roisin clambered out from the puddled blankets. She went to the door on sleep-clumsy legs, sturdy but no longer with that babyish chubbiness that Emma had retained well past toddlerhood. As she passed Sybil ruffled her hair, sleek and glossy as a blackbird's wing. That was as much a mystery as her eyes, a muddy hazel that looked brown in most lights. Emma was a perfect amalgam of her parents, resembling one or the other according to her mood and who was making the observation, but Roisin had drawn her coloring from further away on the family tree. She turned at the door to throw an imperious glance at her mother—_Are you coming or what?_—and Sybil thought amusedly that Roisin's features were not the only way in which she resembled her eldest aunt.

The stairs went down to the entryway of the house, which in turn was open to the parlor, so Sybil did not have to follow the trail of pine needles leading from the door in order to find her husband. Tom was dealing with the tree, a gaunt thing whose topmost branch pointed at the ceiling several feet above like the finger of a crone casting a spell. It shivered and shook as he struggled to get it to stay upright, shedding more needles and dollops of melting snow. Sybil sighed inwardly—he couldn't have shaken it off before he brought it into the house?—but aloud she said, "Well done, you two!"

Tom's irritated voice issued from somewhere under a bough. "Sybil, could you—_feck!_—help me for just a—"

"Da, you said feck! Da, you said a bad word!" Emma, standing off to the side and watching the proceedings with interest, bobbed up and down gleefully.

"Aye, and you're not to repeat it again," snapped Tom. Another profanity, _sotto voce_ this time thank goodness, and the top of the tree whipped dangerously to one side.

"It's a grown-up word, poppet," Sybil said. She stepped forward and plunged her hand through the branches to catch the slender trunk, wincing when the needles scraped her skin.

"Thanks," said Tom. He secured the tree while Sybil held it. "I think that's done it. Let go?" She did, gingerly, and the tree stayed where it was. He crawled out from underneath, covered in pine sap and with damp hair from outside but otherwise none the worse for wear, and grinned. "Your Christmas tree, m'lady. I hope you appreciate it."

As if he wasn't the one who insisted upon getting one every year. "It's lovely." Sybil pecked at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you."

"I helped!" Emma shouted, hurtling forward to throw her arms about her mother's waist. Just as quickly she sprang away and scooped up Roisin, who was standing at the foot of the stairs regarding them all bemusedly.

"Of course you did, poppet."

"I picked it out!" Emma grunted, half-dragging her sister into the parlor. "Rosie, do you want to help us decorate it? We've got tinsel, an' ornaments, an'—"

"Let's have your sister stick to the tinsel," Sybil advised. "I shouldn't let her anywhere near those glass ones."

"Well, of course, Mumma. She can't have glass. She's only little." Emma looked at Sybil like she'd said something idiotic. Then a light went on inside her. "Oooh! Wait'll you see what Da bought! We've got—"

"A bit of an indulgence," Tom interrupted. "Your grandmother sent us that money, and I thought you'd like them…" A broad smile spread across his face and he tromped outside to pick up an item he'd left at the front door. At the start of their marriage Tom had been very much the frugal half of the couple, but his and Sybil's positions on spending had reversed fairly early on. He hadn't the heedlessness—the _ignorance—_she'd had of money in her youth, but he was the one more apt to make an impromptu trip to the bakery on a Sunday morning or buy Emma a set of paper dolls just because she asked for them.

Coming back in he pushed a smallish parcel into Sybil's hands, looking for all the world like a little boy presenting his governess with an especially nice beetle he'd collected in his ramblings. Her eyes slid over the box's bright lettering: _Decorative Lighting Outfit_. It wasn't at all how she'd imagined spending Grandmama's Christmas gift.

He was watching her face. "For the tree."

She pried off the lid. Neatly wound wires connected a series of colored glass bulbs, nestled like eggs in their cardboard notches. There were electric lights for the Christmas tree at Downton, of course, but she'd only ever seen them already twinkling away in the branches. "And these are quite safe? You didn't get them from one of your smuggler friends, did you?"

"Contacts," Tom corrected. "And no. I bought them in the shop like a civilized person." His eyes sparkled as he took the box from her. "Let's string them up!"

-o-

She had to admit the lights looked pretty, though she'd made a conscious decision not to ask what they'd cost. Paired with the crackling fire, they lent the parlor a coziness that transported Sybil's mind to winters past, never mind that nearly every room in her childhood home could have fit their entire downstairs with room to spare. Outside the sun had set, the temperature had dropped, and in here she was safe and warm with the people she loved most. That was the source of her nostalgia.

She was on the sofa with her feet tucked under a blanket, stringing popcorn, and Emma was directing Roisin's placement of tinsel on the tree with steadily increasing frustration. "_No_, Rosie! You've already put some there. We need a bit over _here_, see?" Undaunted, Roisin loaded her chosen branch with more tinsel. "No, no, _no!_ You're putting it all in one place! _Da-_aaa, Rosie's not _doing _it right!"

Tom broke off humming to smile and say, "Whyn't you put it where you want it, and let Roisin put it where she wants it." He swung into a half-sung, half-hummed version of "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" and continued hanging the glass ornaments on the higher branches, well out of reach of grasping little hands.

Sybil cocked an eyebrow and teased, "Isn't that the music of the oppressor?"

Tom's smile stretched and bent, paralleled by his sardonic eyebrow. "It's one of my mother's favorites, and she's nowhere near as tame as I am." His face folded into a mordant scowl. "Besides, I'd say my own countrymen have proven quite adept at oppressing themselves in recent years." He shook his head as if to clear it. "But let's not talk of that now. It's Christmas."

Sybil's eyebrow rose higher: Tom had mellowed since the days of Drumgoole, but he'd never been one to put things to one side for the sake of timing. However, tonight she was glad enough to avoid bringing such an unpleasant topic into the warmth of their home.

Instead she raised a subject that was merely awkward. "So you've fixed it at work for this week? We can stay at Downton until Sunday?" Out of the two of them Sybil's schedule was the less regular, and she'd taken care to put in her request months in advance for holiday for the entire Christmas weekend. Tom had not been so conscientious. Sybil had a hunch that his forgetfulness wasn't entirely unintentional.

"I spoke to Mr. Cooper, yes." Tom's voice had a slight edge that Sybil thought unjustified; she wouldn't need to nag if he'd just done it earlier like he should have. "He said it's fine, unless something big comes up."

"'Something big'?" Sybil lowered her needle. "I assume he means 'a bomb going off at the port' big and not 'the annual Christmas parade' big?"

"Don't joke about that," Tom admonished gently. "But he won't call me in unless it's important." Sybil had just popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth and so was unable to open a debate on the definition of the word "important" in the mind of her husband's editor, but she fixed Tom with a skeptical look, which he answered with guileless blue eyes. "Sybil, you know I've not had to do a puff piece in a long time. Believe me, it'll be fine."

Sybil finished chewing and swallowed. "That's what you said on George's birthday."

Tom rolled his eyes and turned to place another bauble on the tree. "I'm sure the acrobats and pony rides were no less delightful for lack of his Uncle Tom's presence." He looked back at her, his gaze sincere. "My love, I promise I will not miss Christmas with my family for anything that is less than earth-shattering."

"Well, if you say so, darling, then I believe you." Sybil smiled and speared another piece of popcorn with her needle, then held up the lengthening string. "I think this is almost ready."

"I'll be glad to see them all," Tom offered. "I've not even spoken with Matthew in months. He's probably got overconfident, with only your father to play against at billiards."

Sybil smirked. "He might surprise you. Mary tells me they entertain quite a lot these days, and they go out more now that Reggie's a bit older. I'll bet Matthew has sharpened up his skills, with such a variety of opponents."

"Shall we tell them about…?" Tom's questioning glance shot across the room over their still-bickering children's heads.

"No, I think we'd best wait a bit." Sybil dropped her eyes to her work again. "I shouldn't like to make them worry quite yet."

Tom shrugged. "Whatever you think."

Sybil rose from the sofa, holding up the popcorn garland. "Emma, poppet, come and take the end of this string. Time to put it on the tree!"

-ooo-

25 December

Tom raised his eyes to the apex of Downton Abbey's Christmas tree, where a many-pointed star's beatific glow enhanced, rather than eclipsed, the lesser twinkle of the hundreds of tiny white bulbs in its branches. It was as different to the one in the Branson parlor in Liverpool as Downton itself was to their snug home. He wondered where they kept finding them, year after year—these isosceles monoliths, full-boughed and flawless as a picture on the front of a Christmas card. And then he remembered that Robert, Earl of Grantham, owned at least a hundred acres of pine forest.

They followed the earl and countess toward the library for a warming spot of tea after their journey. They'd left their coats inside the front door with Carson and Barrow, whose eyes slid over Tom with the same impersonal courtesy as they had since the second time he'd ever used that entrance. Their unspoken contempt was significantly less deafening, though, and Tom didn't even take it personally any longer. _You can't erase the past,_ he'd have liked to tell them, but he knew both men would contradict him on that score. Mr. Carson much preferred to keep the more colorful parts of his history buried, and doubtless Thomas felt the same about whatever painful experiences littered his memory. Tom remembered being quite flabbergasted when Sybil (Lady Sybil back then) had talked to him about Lieutenant Courtenay and Thomas's selfless devotion to his welfare, and his subsequent desolation at the man's death. So there was human feeling behind those coin-like eyes, Tom had marveled. But you wouldn't know it from his "Pleasant journey, sir?" as bland as if Tom had never eaten a meal alongside him.

For her part, Sybil was just glad to be home again. She'd always loved Christmas at Downton Abbey—holly and ivy wound round the banisters, snow swirling over the fields, the deep shadows under the resplendent tree—and she couldn't keep the smile off her face.

"What is it?" Mary asked. She and Sybil walked arm-in-arm, with Matthew and Tom strolling behind chatting companionably. Emma had, as usual, taken charge of Roisin and they walked ahead.

"Nothing, really," Sybil answered. "Only it's lovely to be here."

"It's lovely to have you here, darling." Their little train paused as Roisin stopped short to inspect the gaily wrapped parcels under the tree.

"Those are for _later_, Rosie," Emma scolded. "You mustn't touch." She and Roisin had a short dialogue, consisting mostly of grunts and emphatic facial contortions on Roisin's side, and Emma looked back appealingly at her mother. "Rosie wants to open her presents now."

"We'll open them after tea," Mary said firmly but not unkindly. And in an undertone to Sybil: "Are you quite certain you don't want them brought up to the nursery for a little while? Georgie and Vi are awfully keen to see them. Nanny says they've talked of nothing else all day."

"Well…" Sybil considered. "We'd better let them get comfortable. Roisin tends to be a bit shy of new places. I shouldn't like her to be ripped away from everyone familiar quite yet."

"But she knows Nanny, doesn't she? And Downton is her mama's home." Mary put on a narrow smile.

"How kind of you to say," Sybil said absently.

"You know it's true. You'll always have a home here if you need one, you and Tom and the girls. Oh, and Sybil—"

Sybil cut her off with a light laugh. "I wonder if Papa agrees with you!"

"Of course he does." Mary dismissed any other notion with an arch of her eyebrow and a wave of her free hand.

"Well, I hope it won't come to that again. But truly, we're fine, and I can hardly remember what it was like to live here!" Sybil squeezed her sister's forearm. "What was it you were going to say?"

"Just something I wanted to speak with you about. It can wait until tomorrow."

"Nothing serious, I hope." Sybil sprang forward to rescue a beribboned box from certain disaster at Roisin's hands. "Sweetheart, leave that."

"It can wait," Mary repeated with a smile.

"Let me know when you're awake and I'll come to your room straightaway. Roisin, put that _down_, if you please, miss. Would you like to come and see the doggie?"

Isis' shaggy tail thumped on the rug as they entered the library. It sped up when Emma and Roisin pounded over to where she lay in the shadow of the writing desk, though her head stayed between her paws on the floor. "Don't torment that poor old dog," Tom admonished.

"She'll be fine. She loves children," Robert demurred, and Isis, white-snouted and drooping with the years, did seem to bear the girls' cooing and patting with tolerance and even pleasure. Tea was brought and the adults sat and sipped, watching the little scene play out.

"Roisin won't pass a dog in the street without trying to give it a cuddle," Sybil said with a laugh. "I'm terrified that she'll be bitten one day, but nothing I do will stop her."

"She does seem to know her own mind." Cora slewed her eyes sideways to meet her husband's waiting ones. "Rather like someone else we know."

"She still hardly talks, though." A shade of concern crept into Sybil's voice. "Emma was chattering away like a magpie at her age."

Cora waved a hand. "I shouldn't worry. You were the same way—I don't think a complete sentence came out of your mouth until you were nearly three."

"And she hasn't stopped talking since," Mary put in with a sardonic smile.

"You had your older sisters to speak for you," Cora said, "and Rosie has hers."

There was a silence that went on just long enough to be uncomfortable. Sybil cleared her throat. "How is Edith? I write to her, but she never writes back."

Her father's face had frozen over at the mention of Edith's name. He shot up from his seat and strode to the desk, leaning over and gripping its edges as though it would keep him from spinning into a rage. "Edith is living her life in London," Robert said in the artificially even tones that meant he was one imprudent rejoinder away from shouting. "Free of any constraints her family might care to impose. And free, I daresay, of any concern about how her actions affect us."

Cora blinked rapidly, all at once finding her lap endlessly fascinating. Matthew returned his cup to its saucer and it rattled in the sudden silence. Mary's eyes arrowed a silent message—_later—_and she coughed delicately. "I had a letter from Cousin Rose not too long ago, and she had some lovely roses sent for Christmas. Goodness knows where she found them, in December." Her voice was calm as always, giving no indication that the exchange of a moment ago had even happened. "She and Sir Peter have gone to the continent for a couple of months. Just on spur of the moment." The previous spring Rose had married Sir Peter Shaworth. Thirty-seven, dashing, and fabulously wealthy, he was a distinguished and only slightly wounded war veteran. Everyone, not least Rose herself, said she was fortunate to have made such a match.

"They're happy, then?" Sybil watched her father. He was still staring grimly out the window, but his jaw had unclenched.

"Very. She waxed rhapsodic about some painting for half a page. Says she's going to take up art again." Mary rolled her eyes gently.

"By the time they get back they'll have finished the renovations on the country house in Surrey," said Cora. "And thank goodness. Poor Rose was absolutely tearing her hair out over them."

"Poor Rose," Tom echoed. Sybil gave him a reproving look, but couldn't suppress a smile in response to his dancing eyes. He opened his mouth to say more, but Sybil hurriedly cut him off.

"Will Aunt Rosamund be with us today?"

Apparently that was another bomb dropped in the middle of the room. Robert had resumed his seat on the sofa, but his lips thinned into a line and his brows drew in stormily. "Your aunt has informed us that she is staying in London for Christmas."

Sybil heard the unspoken _to be with Edith_ echo inside her father's head and through the long space of the library and a hot anger flared in her. So it was traitorous even to associate with the wicked harlot, then. Just as quickly she simmered down. It was Christmas and she didn't want to fight, but more than that she didn't want to be like him, rigid and only able to see her own point of view._Things are changing._ It was a touchstone for her, had been since she'd first come across that galvanizing word _suffragette _in black-and-white newsprint. But for Papa it had always been a threat rather than a comfort: a storm approaching to beat his carefully tended crop into the ground. She supposed the unease she'd felt hearing those words in 1916, from the lips of the chauffeur who would become her husband, had been a mere echo of what her father still experienced every day.

Mary saved the day again, breaking in brightly. "But it's so lovely to have Sybil here, isn't it? I wonder where Granny and Isobel can be. Pratt was meant to fetch them simply ages ago." She gave a tidy smile to her mother, who looked up with something approaching gratitude. "As soon as they arrive, we must open our presents."

-ooo-

By the time they'd got through oohing and aahing over the gifts (Emma and Roisin's grandparents had bought them a pair of exquisitely detailed porcelain dolls, prompting an amused widening of eyes from Tom and an indignant screech from Roisin as her doll was taken away before she could smash its pretty head on the floor), and dinner, _and _the game, the habitually early-rising Bransons were exhausted. Sybil emerged from the bathroom to find Tom propped up on two pillows, chin on chest and butterflied book on stomach, fast asleep. With a fond smile she slipped into bed with him, closing his book and reaching across him to turn out the lamp.

He stirred. "I was reading that."

She chuckled. "With your eyes closed? Of course you were." She shifted onto him in the dark, nestling under his arm. "Don't worry, I marked it for you."

"I'm getting too old for this. I can't keep their schedule any longer."

"You're not the only one." Sybil yawned. "Though age has nothing to do with it. Granny was still going strong when we came up."

"Your grandmother doesn't get up at six a.m. as a matter of course."

"You can say that again. Whenever I come home I wonder how I managed to stay up so late every night, and then I remember how much everything has changed." She left the addendum _for the better_ unspoken, it being self-evident. A brief silence fell and within each of their heads scenes from the last decade played like a film reel spliced and sped up. For the first time in a long while Sybil thought of their defiant announcement in the drawing room: the slow heat that had risen from her chest to the roots of her hair, the way her heart had pounded so hard she was sure everyone would hear it battering against her ribs in the sudden, shocked silence. How far she had come even then, and how much further since.

Tom was reliving a more recent memory: Emma tearing down the stairs in her nightdress that very morning, yelling _Father Christmas has come!_ once she got to the bottom. _Look, he's drunk the whiskey and eaten the mince pies and Rosie! He's left us presents! _Tom had not dwelled on the contrast between this and his own childhood Christmases; he was doing his best for his children, as his mother had done for hers. But if he'd found his eyes getting a bit moist, what of it? "I know it's bad form to say it when we just got here, but I'll be glad to get back home on Sunday."

Sybil's fingers stroked the cotton shirt stretched over his chest. "Me too. Though they'll be sorry to lose us so soon."

"They never will truly understand, will they? How different our lives are from theirs. And that we wouldn't have it any other way."

"No. But they do try." She gave an indulgent chuckle. "Mama was very understanding about us not coming back for the Servants' Ball this year."

"Good. I never enjoyed it anyway. It always seemed such a sop, m'lord and m'lady giving the _hoi polloi_ a chance to hobnob with their betters." Tom snorted. "Trust me, half the people downstairs see it as just as much of a chore as your family does."

"You never enjoyed it? Not even once?" A teasing note crept into her voice.

"Well… maybe once." His tone warmed as well, and his hand moved over her hair. And now the same scene played in both their heads, of candlelight refracting through wineglasses in the great hall of January 1919, the sonic watercolor of music and voices echoing in their nervous ears. They'd been almost afraid to look at each other, moving in overlapping circles that narrowed as the night went on. She remembered the subversive thrill of being in Tom's arms _in front of everyone for once_—not that she'd been in them in private more than a handful of times. Tom had been strung tight as a bow, almost flinching when he went to put his hand on her waist and it slipped. But by the time they danced Sybil had felt curiously relaxed. She'd found herself slipping into a fantasy that it was June and not January, that they were in Mayfair and not Yorkshire. She had known it was very likely she'd never be welcome in a fashionable ballroom again, but she hadn't cared about _that_. It was the sense of normalcy she craved, the ability to glide over the floor with Tom without anyone raising an eyebrow.

"I was sure they could all tell just by looking at us," said Tom.

"Well, half my family knew anyway." Sybil smirked. "When you asked me to dance I remember Mary whispering to me to _behave myself_."

"Ah, so even then she knew _you _were the one she needed to worry about."

Sybil's smile deepened. "What did the two of you talk of when you danced together? You never told me."

"The weather," Tom said dryly. "We managed to make a five-minute conversation out of whether we thought the winter of 1919 would be colder than the one before it." Sybil gave a skeptical snort. "Believe me, love, wedding plans were the last thing either of us wanted to chat about." He flexed his shoulders and relaxed further into the mattress, and Sybil seemed to sink into him as they settled into their habitual sleeping position. _We'll never need a very big bed,_ Sybil often said. And Tom would answer with a wink: _Unless our family keeps growing_.

"Happy Christmas, darling." Sybil yawned, and a second later felt Tom's chest rise beneath her cheek as he did the same.

His arms came more securely around her, warm in the room's midnight chill. "Happy Christmas, love."

Sometime during the night they half-woke and made love, a brief, dreamlike interlude, before drifting back to sleep holding each other. It was the first thing Sybil thought of when she came awake the next morning. Her lips curved in a secret smile and she stretched mightily, toes furrowing through the sheets toward the foot of the bed, her reaching arm brushing over Tom's chest.

He blinked his eyes open and gave her a sleepy smile, his hair mussed. "Good morning."

"It is a good morning." She stretched again and gave a satisfied groan. "I feel quite invigorated."

"Do you, now." He smirked. "I wonder why that should be."

"Mmm. Well… this is a _very_ comfortable bed." She stretched up to kiss his stubbled jawline, then with a smooth movement shifted and turned so she was sitting upright with a knee on either side of him, looking quite pleased with herself.

Tom contemplated the view—Sybil had not put on her nightgown again after last night—and couldn't suppress a grin. He rested his hands on her hips, the most convenient place. "Are the girls still asleep, do you think?" He kneaded her flesh almost absently.

She shook her curls. "I doubt it, but I suppose Nanny can hold them off for another quarter of an hour."

"A quarter of an hour!" Tom raised one hand to her side and tickled, tightening his hold on her hip when she squirmed, and laughed. "You underestimate me."

"Not at all." She leaned over until her face was half an inch from his, enclosing both of them in a curtain of her hair. Her lips brushed against his and her tongue darted out to run sinuously over his lower lip. "Only I'm quite confident of my own abilities."

Just then the door snicked open—_Jesus, do they plan it that way?_ Tom wondered—and Lily the housemaid bustled in, carrying a breakfast tray. Instantly Sybil collapsed onto Tom's chest and he pulled the sheet up over her, but it was obvious what they'd been up to. Tom's face burned.

Lily's reddened as well, though her voice came out robust enough. "Good morning, sir, m'lady!" Tom wondered if she was thinking about all the times they'd sat together at the long table downstairs. "Beg pardon, but Lady Mary ordered your breakfast to be brought up."

"My goodness, I'd completely forgotten. Mary wanted to talk to me about something or other," Sybil said to Tom. "I told her to call for me when she got up today." She craned her neck to look at the clock on top of the dresser, the sheet sliding off one shoulder. "I didn't think it'd be _this _early."

Lily stared determinedly at the carpet, as if wishing fervently for it to swallow her. "Shall I come back later, m'lady?"

"Of course not." Sybil dove under the covers in search of her nightgown while Lily set down the tray on the writing desk, strode across the room, and whooshed the curtains open. Tom noticed that she took extra care to make sure each curtain was exactly equidistant from the center of the window and that they hung straight toward the floor with no wrinkles or snags. Once Sybil had located and donned her nightgown (backward, and bunched up about her waist), the maid judged it safe to approach with the tray.

"Will you be needing anything else? Anna could come round once she's finished with Lady Mary..."

Sybil gave her a brilliant smile. "That won't be necessary, Lily, thank you."

The housemaid beat a rapid retreat and Tom swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I suppose this means I'd best get down to breakfast."

"I do hope nothing's the matter," said Sybil, taking a reflective sip of her tea.

Tom leaned over and gave her a kiss on the temple. "I'm sure she only wants a nice cozy chat with her sister." He went to the wardrobe and began to dress.

"I'm surprised they haven't sent up a footman to dress you. Or Barrow." Sybil smirked at him around a bite of marmaladed toast.

Tom snorted. "Thomas Barrow wouldn't dress me if his life depended on it, even if I would stand for having my clothes put on me like a doll." He shrugged into a shirt and began to button it. "I suppose after six years they've finally given up on me."

"Hardly." She smiled thinly. "After all, we gave them a taste of victory when we bought those tails."

"Which you insisted upon." Knotting his tie in the mirror, he threw a smile over his shoulder.

"I didn't _insist!_ I only said I thought you'd look smart in them."

"And you knew exactly what you were doing when you said that, didn't you?" Fully dressed, Tom walked over to her. "Enjoy your breakfast in bed and your cozy chat."

"What will you do this morning?"

"Read the paper in the library, maybe look in on Mrs. Hughes and the rest of them downstairs." He kissed her cheek. "Perhaps I'll take the girls out for a bit of a ramble in the snow."

"Be sure to wrap them up warmly."

He raised an eyebrow and his heart and pride fought a minor, instantaneous battle over what answer he would give. His heart won, as it usually did. "Of course, love."

When Sybil eased Mary's door open half an hour later she found her in an armchair holding a book open on her lap, the grey winter light from the window spilling over her. With her polished-ebony hair and skin gleaming translucent marble-white she looked like something out of a Baroque painting, ageless and changeless.

The illusion splintered as soon as Mary looked up, warmth suffusing her fine-cut features. She set aside her book. "Darling."

"Good morning." Sybil walked across the room and leaned against the windowsill, facing her sister. "I don't believe I've seen you up and about this early since the war."

"I do try to avoid it." Mary flicked her eyes sidewise, ever sardonic.

Sybil crossed her ankles and fixed Mary with a buoyant look. "So why _are _you awake?"

"Honestly, I haven't been sleeping very well lately." Mary drew herself up, folding her hands on her knees, and pursed her lips. The same tiny smile played about the corners of her mouth as when she got a good hand in whist. "I'm pregnant."

The smile rushed onto Sybil's face and she swept forward. "How wonderful! How perfectly wonderful." Mary's face was a battleground between euphoria and trepidation, which quelled Sybil's ardor somewhat. "How are you feeling?"

"Terrified." Mary let out her breath as though she'd been holding it for weeks. "After the time we had with Reggie…"

Sybil knelt before the chair and, almost unconsciously, wrapped Mary's hands in hers. "I'm sure it'll all be well this time. I know it will be."

"That's what Matthew says." Mary stared at their joined hands in her lap, all trace of humor fled. "It's just that I'm not sure I could bear it if it weren't." Reginald had been born several weeks too soon. A year and a half later he was still frail and sickly, his lungs so weak he couldn't be outdoors in the cold. Mary herself had borne no special risk above that of any laboring mother, but Sybil knew well that feeling of powerlessness, the sense of watching as the future rushed in like a tidal wave to drown everything in its path. Years ago, lying in her lonely bed in the maternity ward, she'd tried in vain to push it off until finally she'd had no choice but to embrace it, let it sink in and become part of her. That same feeling had returned with the confirmation that she was expecting for the second time, and even a relatively uncomplicated pregnancy and birth had not prevented it from rising again in the last three weeks, waxing and waning but always there, a dull but constant ache.

No point in delaying any more, she thought. "Well, you won't have to go through it alone."

Mary gave a bittersweet smile. "I know I won't. Matthew's been simply lovely. And he understands some of it... but he can't really know what it's like, can he? To have a child growing inside of you, all the while feeling you'd die if anything happened to it, and at the same time being terrified that something will."

"I know exactly how that feels." Sybil squeezed her hands again. "But I do mean quite literally that you won't have to go through it alone."

Mary's head came up and her eyes widened at the piquant little smile on her sister's face. "Sybil, surely you're not…"

"Pregnant, yes." Her smile broadened as Mary's mouth fell open. "Well, don't look so shocked. You know how these things happen."

"I'm not _shocked_, exactly. Only—I thought you didn't want a lot of children."

"Three is hardly a lot, especially where Tom comes from!" Sybil laughed, and Mary looked as though she wasn't sure whether to laugh along with her or hide her smile. The resulting awkwardness on her face made Sybil giggle even harder. "It's all right, Mary. You can find it funny."

Mary let a prim pair of dimples come into her cheeks. "And how are _you _feeling?"

"Quite well, actually." Sybil shrugged. "I haven't really been ill, which is a nice change from the first two!

This time there was hardly a sign until a few weeks ago. I stood up too quickly one day and nearly fainted."

"But you've seen the doctor?" Mary's silken brow furrowed.

"Yes, and he says everything looks just fine. Not that there's much to report at this stage!" She did not ask whether Dr. Clarkson had been to the house; she had no doubt he'd wear a path in the coming months.

Now Mary's hands were the ones to take Sybil's, fingers grasping as if to keep her from flying away. "You must look after yourself. We should hate for anything to—" She cut off, her lips pressed together, and Sybil was shocked to see tears welling in her sister's eyes.

"Mary! Of course I will. And of _course _things will be fine, for both of us."

Mary released Sybil's hands to swipe at her eyes. "Of course you're right. Good God, being in this state makes me emotional."

"Then we shall talk about something that will bring you back to form," Sybil said with a smile. "Have you heard from Edith lately? She seemed rather a sore subject yesterday."

"You don't say," Mary scoffed. "The Earl of Grantham's daughter living in sin with a married man and hobnobbing with bohemians? Who could possibly find fault with that?"

Sybil cocked her head, inspecting her sister closely. "But you don't."

"I don't know what makes you say that. I think it's horribly selfish of her. " Mary pursed her lips in a rather passable and completely unconscious imitation of their grandmother.

"She can't help who she loves," Sybil said quietly.

"But to flaunt it like that." Mary shook her head. "And Edith was always so rule-bound."

"Why should she be ashamed? They're as good as married. They've lived as man and wife for years now." Sybil knew she was all but alone in her belief that a marriage license was not the only glue that could hold a couple together. Even Tom was of a traditional mind about it. He held Michael Gregson in something approaching contempt, insisting _If the man truly loves her, he ought to stop at nothing to marry her._ Sybil, who at an impressionable age had observed much of human nature in all its baseness and nobility, had a more nuanced view. "Obviously he'd make an honest woman of her if he could."

"It is a difficult situation," Mary acknowledged. "Anyway, she doesn't write to me any more than she does you. Aunt Rosamund keeps me informed of her doings."

"And?"

"She's perfectly fine. They both are. Apparently invitations to their literary salons are very much in demand among the Bloomsbury set."

But no children. The cold shoulder from society and family, when Edith had always so craved acceptance from both. Love, but not approval. Brilliance, but not stability.

Maybe brilliance was enough, Sybil reflected. In her own case love certainly had been, regardless of the hemming and hawing she'd done over the detail. And maybe once Edith had realized she'd never impress the ones whose approbation she sought, she'd decided to stop trying.

Sybil would not stop trying. She hadn't forgotten Edith's kindness in keeping her occupied during the bed-bound final weeks of her last pregnancy, and was determined that the Bransons would be family to her even if the Crawleys wouldn't. But for the moment, she remarked that she was glad Edith seemed to be having a bit of fun and let the subject drop. "I suppose I'd better go find Mama and tell her she's going to be a grandmama again twice over," she said by way of farewell. "Before the cat's let out."

Mary gave her a look halfway between droll and wounded. "I'm surprised at you, Sybil. You've first-hand knowledge of my proficiency at keeping secrets."

Sybil laughed. "True enough. But once Tom knows that _you _know, he'll tell Matthew and Matthew will tell Molesley and it'll be all over downstairs before dinner. And if Mama and Papa are the last to find out, I'll never hear the end of it!"

"Sybil," Mary said when she was at the door. Sybil turned. "I'm so very happy for you."

Sybil beamed. "As I am for you. And think, we'll have children just the same age."

-ooo-

The double dose of happy news had been all the talk at dinner, no doubt shocking the dinner guests: a silk- and starch-encrusted couple of Robert's generation, and a pompous old peacock of a toff who'd been invited to balance the numbers and had spent the meal trying in vain to charm the Dowager, apparently being possessed of the mistaken idea that she was a sweet old lady. Tom and Matthew abandoned the men to their father-in-law's company as soon as they politely could. They'd each gotten an echo of the high they'd experienced at first hearing the news from their wives' lips, and were feeling much too exuberant to sit in the dining room drinking port with the geriatric set.

Now Tom was finding that Matthew had indeed been improving his billiards game. "Sweetheart of a shot," he remarked, more dismayed than impressed, as another ball met its target.

"It would seem happiness gives me confidence," Matthew said with a smile. "So I wonder what's wrong with your game tonight?" He quirked an eyebrow at Tom, who'd been playing more like Matthew used to.

"I'll have none of your cheek, sir." Tom set down his highball, lined up a shot, and missed. "Bollocks."

"About time you had an off night. After your last visit I seem to recall having to write you an I.O.U. large enough to get me in trouble with Mary."

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I won't be making any bets tonight. I'm not nearly drunk enough and I've a family to think of." He grinned. "As do you. Congratulations, by the way."

"And you. Shall we drink to it?"

"As if I'd say no." Tom raised his glass and Matthew did the same. "To family and happiness. May the latter increase exponentially with the years, and the former just enough to remain manageable." They chuckled and drank. "Are your others excited, to have a little brother or sister?"

Matthew raised his eyebrows, as if surprised to be discussing actual, existing children in such a grown-up milieu. "We haven't told them yet," he said. "Mary wants to wait."

"Of course," Tom said. "We've not told Emma and Roisin either. Though we'll have to, once things…" he made a vague motion with his cue, sketching a rounded belly. "...Become obvious." He could barely remember how they'd handled it with Emma the last time; it hadn't seemed like it was quite real to her until her mother had gone away and come home with a baby. "Children that little don't understand what's happening, until it's happened."

"I think it's more than that," Matthew said, his sunny eyes narrowing as he cast them across the room. "Mary's a bit skittish about it all, after the last time."

"I can understand that." Tom looked away, giving Matthew his privacy (so odd about their feelings, these people), but his voice was sympathetic.

"Do you know…" Matthew leaned down to take his shot, flubbed it, and stood up again. "We, ah, we weren't expecting it." Tom managed not to laugh—what did they _think _would happen when things took their natural course?—and he was very glad of it when Matthew went on. "I'd been sleeping in my dressing room, you know, for a while after Reggie was born. Mary said she didn't want any more children, so…"

Holy Mother. "And you thought that was the only way?"

"Well, she'd spoken with Dr. Clarkson about it, but he had no other advice." Matthew spread his hands. "Obviously it couldn't go on forever."

"Obviously!"

Matthew gave a lopsided smile. "And here we are, hoping for the best."

Tom's answer had come out without thought, but then he considered: what if he and Sybil had been told that another pregnancy would be a death sentence, or that it would condemn them to losing a child? What if they'd been dependent upon the medical establishment in the same way Mary and Matthew were? He'd do whatever he had to. Still, it seemed a harsh remedy for something with such a simple solution. "Well, you certainly don't have to… I'll tell Sybil she should have a talk with Mary about it when the time comes." He nodded decisively, feeling better already. "I'm surprised she hasn't done before."

Matthew's reaction was predictable: he reddened and stammered, "Well, Mary will have the final—ahem!—the final word on that." He quickly shifted to a more neutral subject, mentioning that some minor official at the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries had issued a written commendation on the pig-farming operation that had gotten Downton decisively back in the black. "Now that we've had a few years' success with it, they're suggesting it to some other estates that aren't quite teetering on the edge, but headed that way," Matthew said. His mouth twitched. "Since it saved our bacon."

Tom let out a groan. "Just for that, I need another drink."

-o-

He'd nursed that drink through an entire round of billiards, but by the time the game was lost and the glass drained his mind had begun to wander, as it often did when he was tired and had had a few. Matthew was still fresh as the proverbial daisy, suggesting that they'd ignored the ladies for too long, but the thought of entering that stifling drawing room made Tom want to run straight to the train station and hunker down until morning. So he made his excuses and climbed the now-familiar grand staircase, not so tame as to resist loosening his tie before he'd made it to the door of Sybil's old room. Matthew hadn't even offered to send someone up to help him undress, he noted with a wry grin; maybe they'd given up on him after all.

He half expected Sybil to join him, but he bathed and dressed for bed and there was no sign of her. That was good, he told himself. She didn't get nearly enough opportunities to spend time with her family. And she'd given him plenty of attention in the last day and a half; he'd no reason to be disappointed.

On the tail end of that thought came muffled voices from the corridor, masculine and feminine. Tom recognized Sybil's familiar accents instantly, her father's a second later. They spoke in low tones for a little while and Tom remembered another conversation outside this same room, on the first night Tom had ever spent in it. He still didn't know why he'd gone to the door, pressed his ear against it, stomach roiling at what he heard—_my little girl_—but he could still recall the way he'd felt when he'd opened the door and the Earl of Grantham's face had fallen, his pleasant, momentary illusion shattered. The potent mix of ire and petty satisfaction had felt like a lump of coal dropping through Tom's chest, blooming into a small but extremely hot blaze when it hit bottom, and his hand had jerked almost involuntarily to push the door further open in an unmistakable invitation _to my wife she's my wife and you'd best get used to it_ as he refused to drop his eyes from his father-in-law's. His worse nature had got the better of him that night, and Sybil had not hesitated to remark upon it.

_I know you weren't exactly well treated at dinner, darling, but you really shouldn't let them bother you. _Why had _he _the responsibility to be the bigger man, he'd wanted to know. _Because you are the bigger man. You're better—_we're _better—than anyone's prejudice. _He'd not been able to argue with that.

And six years later, Tom could see that she'd been right. He'd made something of himself as he'd always said he would—not for her parents, but for himself and for her and for _them_: their little family, no longer quite as little. Robert might not ever understand his daughter's choice, but he had got used to it. He even seemed to have developed a certain respect for her husband. At any rate, he occasionally introduced Tom to people as "my son-in-law, the journalist" in a not-unadmiring tone of voice, even if he mumbled a bit over the words _Liverpool Daily Post_ if asked which paper Tom worked for. And so on this night, Tom did not begrudge Sybil's father a few more minutes with his little girl.

Robert was still out there when she opened the door to come in, and just like on that first night she smiled when she saw Tom. But tonight Robert smiled as well. "Good night, Tom."

Tom gave a nod and felt his mouth curling up, his eyes crinkling. "Good night." Sybil and her father embraced once more, and then she was in the room and the door shut. "I never do know what to call him."

She paused on her way to the wardrobe, raising an amused eyebrow. "Still?"

"'Lord Grantham' seems too formal, and 'Robert' too far in the other direction."

"How about 'Papa'?" Sybil teased, and laughed when Tom grimaced. "Call him whatever you like, darling. Even if he does mind, he won't say anything." She finished unbuttoning her dress and pulled it over her head, putting it carefully on a hanger.

"But I don't want him to mind." Sybil laughed again. "When did I start caring what your father thinks?" Tom mused.

Sybil came over in her underclothes and stretched up to kiss him lightly. "When you started to let go of just the tiniest bit of that pride of yours." Her arms went around his waist. "And he's come a long way in the last few years. Maybe he's not _quite _meeting you halfway, but at least he's willing to—"

"To entertain the idea that I haven't ruined your life?" The words had once been enough to draw blood, but now he pronounced them without sharp edges.

She gave him a look all the same. "To appreciate your positive qualities." She fluttered another kiss on his mouth. "But let's not talk about him. He's not the one you have to live with."

"What of you, then? Do you still appreciate my positive qualities?" Tom was suddenly feeling much more energetic, and leaned down to steal his own kiss. "It _has _been six years… it'll be seven soon..." He let his lips alight on hers and stay there for a little while. "...and I know that after a time the routine can become… deadening." his mouth moved to the corner of hers and he laid a line of small kisses across her cheekbone, setting a course for her ear. "For some people, anyway," he whispered into it, and she drew in a sudden breath when his lips strayed to the silken flesh shielded by her earlobe, next to where her jawline began.

"I believe I'll always appreciate—_ohhh_—" his tongue snaked out, throbbing against her skin—"most things about you—_ahh—_darling."

"Good," he murmured against her throat. "Because I don't think I could ever have too much of you."

Sybil drew back and gave him a smile that he would have thought coquettish if he didn't know better. "Too much? Or enough?"

"Either one." It was true. After nearly seven years of marriage their lovemaking wasn't anywhere near as frequent as it had been when they were newlyweds, but that didn't mean their desire had diminished; only that they had jobs and children and very full days.

All the more reason to make the most of leisure while they had it.

-o-

Later they lay parallel, his body curled around hers. Sybil stroked Tom's forearm in a rhythm that would soon put him to sleep. Meanwhile he drifted, taking quiet enjoyment in the feel of her back pressed firmly against his chest, the delicious scratch of her fingernails on his skin. It was so nice to be like this, reveling in closeness after love. They'd always been physically affectionate; maybe it was the years of enforced restraint, when eyes had to substitute for hands and it was never, ever enough. But he liked to think it was just them, their love so strong that it could not be adequately expressed in a look or a word but must find its voice in touch.

Just after they'd married it had been almost a compulsion with him, the need always to be touching Sybil if she was in the room; if others were around it might be nothing more than a scuff of his fingers on her wrist, a brush of his lips on her cheekbone, just enough to make his mother roll her eyes. If they were alone, though, things escalated quickly. He'd wondered how long it would go on, them being drunk on love and each other. Surely it couldn't last forever. He hadn't received much guidance from older men about this (or any) aspect of marriage, his father being long gone and his elder brother completely indifferent to the institution, so it was difficult to know for sure what happened to other people once the honeymoon was over, after children arrived and the daily cares of life had worn their inevitable grooves. But it had seemed inexpressibly sad to him that there should ever come a day when he and Sybil didn't leap eagerly into each other's arms as soon as they had the chance.

It didn't seem sad any longer. The champagne fizz of infatuation had settled into bread-and-butter familiarity, but contempt had never yet made an appearance. There was too much to discover together: even after the big mysteries had been revealed and every inch of skin mutually explored, it seemed they could still surprise each other. Though there were fewer chances now to be with Sybil in the way they just had been, for him it was never any less sweet.

Apparently Sybil's mind was running on a similar track. "It's such a lovely thought, that we should always be like this with each other."

Tom smiled sleepily. "I don't know that we'll always be like we are now. But I know it'll always be good, because it'll be you and me." He pressed his lips to her temple. "I do think we've gotten better."

"Practice makes perfect," she replied archly, and they both laughed.

"I love you," Tom said, and she twisted around to give him one last kiss good-night. "Always."

-ooo-

27 December

They hadn't even been gone three days, but the house had that empty chill of oxygen unbreathed, light unused. As Sybil herded Emma and Roisin through the door their footsteps and voices echoed as if the air were unaccustomed to carrying sound. "Go on, girls, get inside!" Hats and coats and boots were shed and stowed and Tom went upstairs with the bags while the girls stood in the middle of the floor in stocking feet, yawning their heads off; it had been a late start and a long trip and it was high time they were in bed. But first Roisin toddled into the darkened parlor to gaze solemnly into the Christmas tree's sparse branches. The wrapping paper had mostly been cleared away but there were still scraps lying here and there, a stray ribbon under the chair. Sybil left it, turning up the radiator and collapsing onto the sofa. Emma crept up next to her and tucked her feet sideways, snuggling under her mother's arm; Sybil dropped a kiss on her curly head and stroked her hair. "Did you have a nice time with Grandmama and Grandpapa?"

"Yes," Emma whispered. Roisin turned to look back at them and pointed to the tree. "She wants you to turn the lights on." She twisted her head around at hearing the thump of Tom's feet down the stairs. "Da, will you turn the lights on?"

"I don't know…" Tom widened his eyes in feigned hesitation. "It's not Christmas any longer. It might be against the rules."

Emma pouted. "_Da-_aaaa! You're being silly."

"I wouldn't want to damage your standing with Father Christmas next year." But he was already rounding the sofa toward the tree, a broad smile sneaking onto his face.

"Please? Just this once?" Emma slipped off the sofa and padded over to look appealingly up into her father's face. "Maybe he won't see."

Sybil decided to push things in the children's favor. "Doesn't Father Christmas always have a nice long sleep after Christmas? He's probably tucked up in bed right now, not checking up on children."

"All right then." Tom turned on the lights and the girls sat down cross-legged by the tree, color painting their rapt faces. He shambled over and dropped onto the sofa next to Sybil. "What a day." He leaned on her shoulder. "What a weekend."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," said Sybil, with affection.

"I feel like Father Christmas on Boxing Day."

"Poor darling." She put her arm round him, stroking his hair. "An entire weekend of having your meals cooked and your bed made and your children taken care of. You must be exhausted."

"Aren't you?" His hand stole over her still-flat stomach, his palm spreading over it. "You're doing a lot of work in there."

She smiled and her hand drifted down to rest on top of his. "I can't quite believe it yet, even though I've gone through it twice before."

"Think it'll be a boy this time?"

"Would you mind, if it wasn't?"

"Of course not. But after two girls, you'd think we'd have something different."

Sybil laughed. "I'm sure my parents thought the same thing when Mama was pregnant with me!" She nudged Tom. "Look," she whispered, tipping her head at the girls. They'd crawled under the scant canopy of the tree and were lying on their backs, staring up into the lit branches and having an intimate conversation in their own dialect.

"I'm glad they have each other." Tom rubbed Sybil's belly absently. "They aren't going to have the easiest time of it, you know."

"Maybe not. But no one does, when you think about it."

Tom kept silent, letting his drowsy mind turn away from the future. Time enough for worrying later. Now was for the lights shining against his closed eyes, the hushed voices of his children, the warmth and scent of his wife at his side. Now was for happiness.

* * *

_AN#2: Yeah, I know, the Bransons being walked in on by the maid and the bromance over the billiards table have both been done to death (and at least once by me). Time constraints! I'll try to be more creative next time._

_Re: Christmas/fairy lights. Electric Christmas lights didn't truly come into mass use until the 1930s, but by the 1920s they were getting cheaper and I've always pegged the Bransons as bleeding-edge kind of people. _


End file.
